By the time I finally arrived in Fez on Thursday I was pretty certain that my luggage was lost so my enthusiasm was a little muted. However, I’m enough of a child to admit that my first thought on stepping down onto the tarmac was ‘five continents down, two to go.’ As I was waiting in the queue for passport processing I kept looking into the next room at the baggage carousel turning and I couldn’t see my suitcase, which is impossible to miss because it’s the world’s largest. Luckily a tour guide, Samil, associated with the Riad al Pacha was already there waiting for me. He helped me fill out the lost luggage forms (and calm down another traveler who had lost his suitcase and refused to give his address in Sudan, and grew quite agitated that someone would want to know it) and we were on our way to the hotel along with our driver Mohammed.
It was already dark because of the delay so I was happy to have the guide and driver (although I’m sure I’m getting way over-charged for the cab ride to the hotel, and especially for the ride to Ifrane on Friday, but beggars can’t be choosers – and if they had not been waiting for me my mood would have been much worse). Fez looked much more like Amman than Dubai, my main two points of comparison in the Islamic world (although nothing looks like Dubai anyway). We arrived in a dusty parking lot and then Samil and I started walking through winding narrow alleys (that were not much more than passageways) on the way to the Riad al Pacha. The hotel is essentially located in what remains of a sprawling medieval souk that hasn’t changed much over the centuries. We arrived at the door (pictured above, although when we arrived it was very dark in the alleyway) and knocked – I was expecting a little slot to open and someone to ask for a password. Instead a very friendly man named Abdul answered the door. Abdul spoke no English (Arabic and French are the main languages of Morocco) but was exceedingly friendly – and he was also the only staff at the Riad. I had received a cheaper rate at the Riad because it is categorized as a low season, and I guess it is because I was the only one staying there, which added to the rather bizarre nature of the place.
The Riad al Pacha is an old private residence that has been turned into a small hotel, sort of the American equivalent of a bed and breakfast. It was as quiet as a tomb and very otherworldly, not simply because I never found even one clock in the whole place (I kept waiting for a Lovecraft short story to break out). Before we did anything I asked if I could get on the Internet to see if I had any messages and to tell a couple people that I was alive, which they graciously allowed me to do in the lobby. Unfortunately, although logically, the keyboard was French which means a few of the letters are in different places – not a huge problem, but one that makes typing quickly impossible (I later learned you can just change the setting on the computer to American keyboard and it will just ignore what the keys actually say). While I was typing Abdul brought me mint tea and cookies. Samil had me draw up a list of supplies (tooth brush and paste, deodorant, etc.) that I needed and said that Mohammed would be back in the morning at 7:00 with them – I was skeptical and amused by this but complied. After Samil left Abdul showed me to my room and then insisted on taking me up to the roof. He was very proud of the view even though it was dark and I couldn’t make out much – it’s amazing how much you can communicate when you don’t share any words in common. He dropped me off in my room and later brought me some bottled water.
My room had no clock and no television. The ceiling was around 15 feet tall. Luckily, it did have a wall unit for providing cooler air which was located about twelve feet up on the wall (I had a remote control, which I initially thought was for the television that I couldn’t find). I read for a little bit (Paul Bowles’ The Spider’s House, which is set in Fez, and was suggested by Sarah Cohen from the library) but then just tried to get to sleep. The bed was so uncomfortable that it made me nostalgic for my old bed in my apartment in Mumbai, which was actually a bed only in the sense that I had to sleep on it. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep very well, which was probably a combination of the craziness of the day and a quiet that was so profound that it was almost noisy. The one noise was the wind, which is my constant companion in Fez. I have this theory that Moroccans probably have as many names for the different varieties of wind as Eskimos do for different types of snow fall. I woke up early and, after going downstairs and not finding anyone up, went up to the roof to watch the sun rise over the medina. That was an amazing experience. I took a series of pictures, but I don’t think any of them did it justice. I sat at an iron table and chair on the balcony overlooking the medina and watched it slowly come to life – although it was a little quieter than usual because it was a Friday morning. I also tried to write in my journal (the actual physical one that my sister Beth gave me – another thing I bring everywhere – it helps make eating alone in countless restaurants manageable) but the wind was blowing a bit too strongly and a bit too coldly to make it possible.
After a while I went back down to the main room, picked out a table, and wrote a lot in my journal. The central room was beautiful and I’ve included a picture above. As I wrote the wind alternately rattled every door and wind in the place, almost as if it were looking for a way to get inside. Eventually there was a ring at the door which woke up Abdul, who I hadn’t realized was sleeping in a little room off the big central eating room where I was sitting, and he ran to the door. Amazingly, he brought me a little bag full of toiletries – Mohammed was as good as his word. I ran upstairs to shower, which did refresh me although I did have to then turn around and put on the same dirty clothes from the day before. By the time I made it back downstairs Abdul had prepared breakfast for me: a variety of breads and croissants, a sort of fried potato pancake, butter, marmalade, honey, coffee, milk and orange juice in a wine decanter.
Mohammed was waiting for me so I grabbed my things and we took off. I told Abdul (through Mohammed) that I was coming back on Monday and would it be OK if I just paid when I returned, which was OK with him. We also told him to keep a lookout for my suitcase in case it showed up – and we all smiled at that notion. Mohammed and I jumped in his van, stopped by an ATM (well, it took a third stop before we found one working) for some cash, and we were off to Ifrane. We talked a lot about Dubai, which fascinated him. We also talked about his one year old son and his hope that he would someday be a doctor. Mohammed had wanted to do so, but family problems held him back – plus, he was actually in Paris in university for further schooling at one time but couldn’t get his papers worked out and had to leave. When I told him that my son was 19 he couldn’t believe it and talked about the advantages of having children really young – he also couldn’t believe that I was 47 because he assumed that he, at 41, was older than me. We climbed up from the plains and into the mountains. Beyond the fact that we had to pass a lot of cars along narrow winding mountain roads, it was a remarkably pleasant experience. Mohammed assured me that Al Akhawayn University is the best university in Morocco and was happy that I was visiting there. We reached the university and he dropped me off, and another day was beginning.
It was already dark because of the delay so I was happy to have the guide and driver (although I’m sure I’m getting way over-charged for the cab ride to the hotel, and especially for the ride to Ifrane on Friday, but beggars can’t be choosers – and if they had not been waiting for me my mood would have been much worse). Fez looked much more like Amman than Dubai, my main two points of comparison in the Islamic world (although nothing looks like Dubai anyway). We arrived in a dusty parking lot and then Samil and I started walking through winding narrow alleys (that were not much more than passageways) on the way to the Riad al Pacha. The hotel is essentially located in what remains of a sprawling medieval souk that hasn’t changed much over the centuries. We arrived at the door (pictured above, although when we arrived it was very dark in the alleyway) and knocked – I was expecting a little slot to open and someone to ask for a password. Instead a very friendly man named Abdul answered the door. Abdul spoke no English (Arabic and French are the main languages of Morocco) but was exceedingly friendly – and he was also the only staff at the Riad. I had received a cheaper rate at the Riad because it is categorized as a low season, and I guess it is because I was the only one staying there, which added to the rather bizarre nature of the place.
The Riad al Pacha is an old private residence that has been turned into a small hotel, sort of the American equivalent of a bed and breakfast. It was as quiet as a tomb and very otherworldly, not simply because I never found even one clock in the whole place (I kept waiting for a Lovecraft short story to break out). Before we did anything I asked if I could get on the Internet to see if I had any messages and to tell a couple people that I was alive, which they graciously allowed me to do in the lobby. Unfortunately, although logically, the keyboard was French which means a few of the letters are in different places – not a huge problem, but one that makes typing quickly impossible (I later learned you can just change the setting on the computer to American keyboard and it will just ignore what the keys actually say). While I was typing Abdul brought me mint tea and cookies. Samil had me draw up a list of supplies (tooth brush and paste, deodorant, etc.) that I needed and said that Mohammed would be back in the morning at 7:00 with them – I was skeptical and amused by this but complied. After Samil left Abdul showed me to my room and then insisted on taking me up to the roof. He was very proud of the view even though it was dark and I couldn’t make out much – it’s amazing how much you can communicate when you don’t share any words in common. He dropped me off in my room and later brought me some bottled water.
My room had no clock and no television. The ceiling was around 15 feet tall. Luckily, it did have a wall unit for providing cooler air which was located about twelve feet up on the wall (I had a remote control, which I initially thought was for the television that I couldn’t find). I read for a little bit (Paul Bowles’ The Spider’s House, which is set in Fez, and was suggested by Sarah Cohen from the library) but then just tried to get to sleep. The bed was so uncomfortable that it made me nostalgic for my old bed in my apartment in Mumbai, which was actually a bed only in the sense that I had to sleep on it. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep very well, which was probably a combination of the craziness of the day and a quiet that was so profound that it was almost noisy. The one noise was the wind, which is my constant companion in Fez. I have this theory that Moroccans probably have as many names for the different varieties of wind as Eskimos do for different types of snow fall. I woke up early and, after going downstairs and not finding anyone up, went up to the roof to watch the sun rise over the medina. That was an amazing experience. I took a series of pictures, but I don’t think any of them did it justice. I sat at an iron table and chair on the balcony overlooking the medina and watched it slowly come to life – although it was a little quieter than usual because it was a Friday morning. I also tried to write in my journal (the actual physical one that my sister Beth gave me – another thing I bring everywhere – it helps make eating alone in countless restaurants manageable) but the wind was blowing a bit too strongly and a bit too coldly to make it possible.
After a while I went back down to the main room, picked out a table, and wrote a lot in my journal. The central room was beautiful and I’ve included a picture above. As I wrote the wind alternately rattled every door and wind in the place, almost as if it were looking for a way to get inside. Eventually there was a ring at the door which woke up Abdul, who I hadn’t realized was sleeping in a little room off the big central eating room where I was sitting, and he ran to the door. Amazingly, he brought me a little bag full of toiletries – Mohammed was as good as his word. I ran upstairs to shower, which did refresh me although I did have to then turn around and put on the same dirty clothes from the day before. By the time I made it back downstairs Abdul had prepared breakfast for me: a variety of breads and croissants, a sort of fried potato pancake, butter, marmalade, honey, coffee, milk and orange juice in a wine decanter.
Mohammed was waiting for me so I grabbed my things and we took off. I told Abdul (through Mohammed) that I was coming back on Monday and would it be OK if I just paid when I returned, which was OK with him. We also told him to keep a lookout for my suitcase in case it showed up – and we all smiled at that notion. Mohammed and I jumped in his van, stopped by an ATM (well, it took a third stop before we found one working) for some cash, and we were off to Ifrane. We talked a lot about Dubai, which fascinated him. We also talked about his one year old son and his hope that he would someday be a doctor. Mohammed had wanted to do so, but family problems held him back – plus, he was actually in Paris in university for further schooling at one time but couldn’t get his papers worked out and had to leave. When I told him that my son was 19 he couldn’t believe it and talked about the advantages of having children really young – he also couldn’t believe that I was 47 because he assumed that he, at 41, was older than me. We climbed up from the plains and into the mountains. Beyond the fact that we had to pass a lot of cars along narrow winding mountain roads, it was a remarkably pleasant experience. Mohammed assured me that Al Akhawayn University is the best university in Morocco and was happy that I was visiting there. We reached the university and he dropped me off, and another day was beginning.
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